Mirror Image

“Why does Seamus keep looking over here?” Hermione asked, casting a look over her shoulder. The common room was crowded for how early in the term it was, but it was a product of Umbridge’s class. In the absence of practical magic work, they were getting inches of parchment, essays after essays, and work that took hours out of the day. There was some kind of natural drive to suffer together, because every night after classes and dinner, the Gryffindors found their way to the common room to work on their homework. Well, most of the Gryffindors. Hermione had taken to splitting her time between working in the common room with her Housemates, and taking long hours in the Library where she could absentmindedly practice her Natural magic while penning her thoughts on defensive magical theory.

“He and Harry fought,” Ron said, simple and neat.

“What?”

Harry rolled his eyes from where he was sitting, hunched over an assignment for Charms. “Voldemort. His mum was talking about Dumbledore and me, about how we’re crazy for thinking he’s returned.”

Hermione bit her lip. She’d had similar fights with Lavender in the few days they’d been back in the dorms. She sometimes felt like it was absurd - arguing that Death Eaters were a legitimate threat, that Voldemort was going to truly ruin their world, simultaneously waiting for her Dark Mark pendant to burn hot against her chest. Even more so that it had been a full week now, and Toma hadn't called for her once. “Lavender doesn’t think he’s back either.”

“I don’t know how they can be so stupid,” Harry said, his voice growing louder, but still too low to carry across the room. “We all saw the Death Eaters at the World Cup. They tried to infiltrate Hogwarts. Why else would they be so bold if they weren’t planning to follow Voldemort again? He’s back, and they’re working for him again.”

Ron nodded, looking between Harry and Hermione like his head was on a spring. “It’s true, ‘Mione.”

“I know,” she murmured. “They’re a threat to us all.”

Toma and Hermione had agreed - they needed the severity and intensity of the Order in response to the Death Eaters to best set the social response for their measured solution. Hermione, as a muggle-born, could be the voice of reason for the blood-purists, a way to pull people from the Pureblood families to their ideals. And Toma would act as the tempered response to pull the inclusionary side into a real discussion of muggle-born laws. They needed a fight between the Order and the Death Eaters. They needed Harry to stir the pot. Hermione was supposed to encourage the idea that Voldemort and the Death Eaters were back, completely back and insane and full of rage and violence, if only so Harry would continue to encourage the Order's unilateral and extreme response to the Death Eaters.

Intensity cooled by compromise, that was how Toma and Hermione would win this war.

The common room all around them was thrumming with conversations - Neville was helping a couple younger kids with Herbology assignments by the fire. They were the only kids in Gryffindor who seemed to take Neville’s help without questioning his stammering, nervous habits. Seamus and Dean were working together by the fire, too, but keeping out of Neville’s little lesson. The Weasley twins and Ginny were sitting across the room by the windows, working through the first potions assignment of the year, and a group of others - Lavender included - were working on their first essay for Umbridge, an essay on wand movements and precision in casting.

Conversation at Hermione, Ron, and Harry’s table stalled out, Harry and Ron going back to their Charms work and Hermione consumed in her Arithmancy work. It was hard not to mention the things she knew, the role intention played in magical formulas, the way it mirrored Natural magic and Dark magic and Grey magic, the ancient studies of Purebloods who first discovered the role of numbers in magical casting.

Hermione had been struggling with that more than she was struggling with the lack of practical defense lessons. In Potions, their first assignment for the term was to write fifteen inches on the development of Sleeping Draughts from the diluted form of Draught of Living Death, and all Hermione wanted to talk about was the intention behind the potions. About how it was the intention that set it apart far more than the changed preparation of lacewing flies.

In Charms, she'd been asked to write about the history of the bubble-head charm, and all she wanted to do was reference the Muggle violence of the witch trials.

In Transfiguration, she was required to read a passage on the distinction between Animagus transformations, and those forced on others by external means, and found it to be completely devoid of any mention of magical signatures, or the way personal magic is specifically tied to the Animagus form taken.

The chatter in the room slowed as the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open and Toma Grozdanov stepped through. He was wearing his uniform, but his shirt was unbuttoned at the top, his tie was loose, and he looked every bit the tousled, care-free, Muggle-influenced wizard he was supposed to be. His earrings were due for a change, though, and Hermione made a mental note to get him some different ones.

Toma commanded an audience with single movements, steps across the room or hands folded over the cover of a book. He was a presence that could not be ignored, even if you wanted to shun him.

Toma and her made eye-contact from across the room, and Toma bee-lined for her. It was panic-inducing. He hadn’t told her he was going to confront her in the common room. They hadn’t talked about this, this wasn’t something Hermione could prepare for, and she felt her body tense as he got closer. All around them, people were staring, taking notice and watching as the hot, new, older kid made his way to bookworm, swot Hermione.

“Hermione Granger,” he said. “May I call you Hermione?”

Hermione wanted to snort. “Certainly. May I call you Toma?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Toma said with a smile. Hermione found herself returning it as if they were in the Manor Library. He really could be charming, disarmingly so, and she was suddenly looking forward to having his friendship in this castle, where he couldn’t hurt her. All the good, none of the bad, and witty, intelligent banter without any drawbacks.

Well, no drawbacks except it was Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort himself.

“How can I help you, Toma?” Hermione asked, ignoring the way Harry and Ron at her sides were watching her, were glaring at her friend.

Hermione learned in the first week back that Harry wouldn’t look past his own nose long enough to notice the way Toma looked familiar, stuck on the fact that he was cousins with a Pureblooded Slytherin. He only cared enough to condemn the boy, to hate him. And Ron was too thick to notice most things, let alone Hermione’s subterfuge and Toma’s double identity. They could glare all they wanted - they would never see what Toma truly was. And their childish treatment of him only made the others in the Tower more enthralled by him.

“I’ve heard you’re the best Gryffindor when it comes to History of Magic,” he said. “We did not cover much History at Durmstrang. Would you mind helping me catch up?”

It was a cover, clear as day, but what he was hoping to achieve in the middle of the Common room was beyond Hermione.

“Have a seat,” Hermione gestured to one of the seats nearby, and Ron scoffed something hard and disbelieving and cruel. Hermione just smacked his arm. “Be nice,” she said. “Toma has not done anything to either of you to earn that kind of treatment.”

“You can be chummy with this snake,” Ron said. “But I don’t want anything to do with him.”

Ron got his things together and stood, taking Harry with him, who didn’t say anything but did pause long enough to give Hermione a disapproving look. She pretended not to see, getting out her History books instead. This seemed counter-productive to Toma’s plan for Hermione to be close enough to Ron and Harry to keep them thinking about the Death Eaters, but she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. She was desperate for thoughtful, intellectual conversation over the lowbrow, petty conversation Harry and Ron brought. Whatever this was, Toma was leading her in this social dance, and she would follow his direction.

Toma settled into the armchair across from Hermione and they stared at one another. There was something odd about his expression, but Hermione couldn’t quite place it. “I thought you might help me with an assignment here,” he said after a minute, sliding a piece of loose parchment from his books. “About the turn of the century in Wizarding London and the role of Muggle war in our legal policy passed during that time.”

“Of course,” Hermione said, taking the parchment from him. “First, we’re going to- ah!”

There was a sensation, like a headache behind Hermione’s nose, but it came on suddenly. It was accompanied by a caress, something gentle and soothing, and Hermione furrowed her brow as she rubbed it with her hand. It was like that night in the Gaunt House, but softer. Gentler. Even with the pain, this was gentler. “I-”

Do not do that again, Toma’s voice said, but it was cold and inside her head. Hermione looked out of the corner of her eye, and yes. There were other students giving her a curious look, but none of them looked scared or upset by this voice inside their heads. It was only Hermione, then. She dropped her hand to the table and tried to remember what they were talking about.

“Sorry,” she said. “Headache, that’s all. Let’s start with the-”

I believe, sharing a House, it would be advantageous if we could talk without the cover of night.

Toma's voice was quieter, less harsh, and Hermione found herself nodding as she stared at the cover of her book. After a moment, she remembered herself, and she froze.

What do your friends know? Think carefully about them, about their thoughts on my being here, and I will find them.

Hermione took a breath, trying to concentrate on too much at once. This was- it was- maddening and frightening and mind-melting- and she was- it was-

Keep talking.

“-the causes of World War One,” she said finally. She took another breath and rummaged in her bag, looking for a quill, and she concentrated on Harry and Ron. On their hatred for Toma from the moment they saw him with Theo and Draco, on the way they followed Dumbledore blindly. There had been no concrete proof of Lord Voldemort’s return, only the increased activity of the Death Eaters last summer, and they were clinging to it. She was encouraging them.

“Here we are,” she said, pulling out her books and setting them on the table. “We’ll start with the French.”

What of the other Gryffindors?

“We’re going to have to go back a bit, to when their financial troubles began-” Hermione thought about the way people seemed to fawn over the new lion among them, with his Muggle fashions and his attractive style. No one had told her about suspicions, or distrust. Her voice only stuttered a few times, but it was negligible if you believed she had a headache. “-and we can talk about their allies and how they fell into the war.”

Do you have any articles written on the current state of our world-

“We can see how the cascading events leading up to World War One were-”

-and how blood purity is a result of-

“-actually mirrored in the run up to World War Two-”

-age-old conflicts never fully addressed?

“-and how repeated mistakes around allyship were used as a way for Wizarding Britain to justify isolation from other Wizarding nations.”

Back and forth the conversation went, Hermione explaining world events that Toma had lived through, and Toma probing questions in Hermione’s mind about how he was viewed. It was a monstrous conversation. It ate at Hermione’s brain, at her will to think. She felt like she was a pot of pudding, bubbles of heat pushing through her brain and popping at her temples. She kept trying to think the things she said, or say the things she thought, and it got harder the longer they did it. Like the longer Hermione had to work at thinking and saying completely different things, the more her brain ached and her concentration wavered.

If anyone in the common room noticed her struggling, they didn’t say anything about it. They were too busy with their own lives. Toma ended the conversation with a last thought - thank you. I didn’t want to call you for such a trivial check-in. Expect further conversations like this. - and a simple, vocal “thank you.”

Hermione finished her Transfiguration essay and went to bed early, her head still throbbing from the conversation.

~~~

Hermione let her bag fall off her shoulder and sighed. The Room of Requirement was a blanketed, pillowed room today. Probably Theodore’s asking. The ground was plush, like the carpet was extra thick, and the walls were draped in tapestries. In the middle of the room, there was a circular bed sunk into the very floor. A canopy of blankets draped over it from the ceiling and there were pillows strewn all about. In the middle of the bed, nearly hidden in all the fluff, was Theo and Draco, sitting close together and definitely making out.

“Ah-hem,” Hermione cleared her throat after watching, smiling and not even a bit upset. “I thought this was going to be a respectable date.”

“Are there such things as respectable dates without kissing?” Theo asked, waggling his eyebrows. Draco was blushing, avoiding any eye contact with either Hermione or Theo.

“I’d say so,” Draco grumbled. Hermione stared, studying his face, and it clicked. He was embarrassed, yes, but there was shame there, too. Genuine shame. This wasn’t someone caught making out with their boyfriend, this was someone caught kissing someone else by their girlfriend.

Hermione kicked off her shoes and focused her attention on Transfiguring her school uniform to something a little more comfortable - yoga leggings and Draco’s own quidditch jersey from home - and made her way to the boys. She sank to her knees in the pillows and half-crawled to where they were sitting, only falling on the soft mattress once. Even after kissing had become second-nature between them, she was still uncertain of herself. Hermione was a 15-year-old girl with 15-year-old urges, yes, but she was uncomfortable in her own skin most of the time. She’d turned the heads of Viktor Krum and these two brilliant, beautiful men in front of her, but she didn’t have the slight figure of Pavarti, or the blonde locks of Lavender. She wasn’t Pureblooded, she hadn’t had as much time with Draco and Theo as they had had with one another.

But she was theirs and she was done waiting for something inside her to change. She was done waiting to feel like she deserved to be kissed and ready to simply demand it.

When Hermione reached them, she cupped Draco’s face in her hand and leaned in with confidence she was faking, kissing him soundly. Lips locked together, noses tilted just perfectly out of the way, and somehow, impossibly synchronized. She parted her lips happily, smiling as Draco gave a surprised hum. He met her with his own eagerly parted lips and a gentle probing of his tongue.

It was awkward and strange. Kissing, pressing her tongue against his, it was just different from their past kisses. Draco’s hands were fisted in her shirt, holding her tight. They only broke apart to breathe.

When Draco was thoroughly snogged for the first time by Hermione, she turned to Theo and did the same for him. Where Draco had kissed like a fairy book character, all soft edges and cool, firm pressure, Theo kissed like he wanted to eat Hermione whole. His lips slotted against hers, and she pushed into the pressure. Teeth were hard behind their lips, and there were sparks of something rough amongst the kiss. His hand was cupped against her cheek, her hand tangled in his hair.

Hermione pulled away from him. Both of them looked dazed, a little confused, and then Theo pushed Hermione away with a laugh. “Who are you and what have you done with our Mya?”

“She’s right here,” Hermione said with a roll of her eyes. She turned her head, finding Draco. “You should kiss your boyfriend, Draco. Even when I’m not around, you deserve to have that with him. Just because I’m stuck in the tower of dimwits doesn’t mean you should be punished for it.”

“And when you are around?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. Hermione held his gaze, summoning the last of her courage.

“I like to watch,” she said simply. The words were forced out, and no matter how much control Hermione had over herself, she blushed at the admission.

Theo’s head fell backwards and he laughed. “Our witch is going to give you a heart attack, Drake!”

Hermione flopped over, her legs stretching out into Theo’s lap and her head pillowed on one of Draco’s calves. “So you’ve recovered from whatever spat you had on the train,” she said thoughtfully.

Draco balked. “I was not in a spat.”

“You were,” Theo argued. He looked down at Hermione. “Pansy started in on Drake being old enough for an arrangement and wouldn’t take ‘not interested’ for an answer. She told him she would have her father reach out to Lucius, and Draco nearly hit her.”

“And then she began to cry,” Draco said.

“That was most likely because you almost hit her,” Hermione said. Theo gave a sharp laugh.

“You shouldn’t worry about it,” he said, looking at Draco with soft, loving eyes. “Maybe she was simply emotional.”

“Hormonal, more like,” Draco grumbled. “Damn witch wants nothing more in life than to marry and become someone’s brood witch.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Not every witch is an emotional nightmare when she is on her period.” She looked between the boys and shook her head. “I think you two should tell me about your week,” she said, when the laughter had died away and Draco had relaxed.

“Umbridge is torture,” Theo started. He leaned back himself, angling just enough so he could keep Hermione’s legs in his lap and still get his head to fall neatly on Draco’s shoulder. “That’s all I have to say about my week, and I would much rather talk about happier topics. You know, it’s almost your birthday,” he said, his hands tangling in Draco’s hair. “Mya.”

“I know,” she said with a huff.

“What’s wrong? You don’t like birthdays?” Theo asked, playfully. “Think about it this way. Your birthday is only 3 months before mine. And Draco’s is 6 months after that. In less than a year, we’ll put a big, old rock on your finger.”

Draco and Hermione both snorted. “He means that,” Draco said. “The big and the old part. We’ll have to talk about it at some point, but we’ll have some older pieces of heirloom jewelry reset to suit your style, and we’ll design something for both of us.”

“That’s the only part of my birthday I am looking forward to,” Hermione said faintly. “The ‘one month closer to being engaged to you both’ part.”

“What’s wrong with your birthday?” Draco asked, serious and attentive. He dragged a thumb down Hermione’s cheek and tilted his head to look at her better. Hermione gave a shrug.

“Well, nothing. Except…” she trailed off with a shrug of her shoulder.

“Except what, Mya?”

Hermione looked up at Draco and rolled her eyes. “The boys tend to forget, is all. I usually spend my birthdays alone at Hogwarts. Even as a child, I never particularly enjoyed my birthday. None of the kids at school ever came to my parties, so most of the time it was just me and my parents, sat at a little table with too much cake and food for just us. We started giving the leftovers to the neighbors because they made me sad the next day."

Hermione shrugged a little. "And, speaking of cycles, I’m due for my- well. My period. Rotten birthday gift if you ask me, and likely the only one I’ll receive until the three of us are able to celebrate ourselves.”

Draco’s mouth snapped shut and he swallowed. “That does seem like a frustrating error on your internal clock’s part,” he said finally. His words were prim and proper, strange to hear from him when Hermione had gotten so used to the relaxed, comfortable way he normally talked around her. And though he’d just been talking about it so blatantly when it was Pansy’s cycle, he was suddenly reserved now it was Hermione’s. “I will make a note of the timing, so I know for future months.”

Hermione smiled. “You don’t have to do that,” she said shyly.

Draco just waved his hand. “Of course I do. That’s what boyfriends do. Get their girlfriends tea and chocolate and whatever else will make you feel better. I would offer to do your homework for the week, but that might make you feel worse actually.”

Hermione smiled up at Draco, a little taken aback even 3 months into their relationship. She should have known by now how kind and thoughtful he could be, but somehow it kept surprising her. She tilted her head down to look at Theo and was surprised to see him looking a little shy himself. His cheeks were pinked up, his chin tilted down into his chest. His hands stuttered on her legs. It wasn’t the way that Draco was shy about it - strained but not embarrassed - it was like Theodore didn’t know what to do with himself at all. Like the thought he should be far away from any conversation about Hermione’s cycle all together.

“Theodore, do grow up. Witches have menstrual cycles,” Draco said goodnaturedly and teasing. Theo just shoved Draco’s arm. “He’s only like this because he never had a witch’s presence at home,” Draco whispered to Hermione.

The comment from Toma months ago sprang back to Hermione’s mind. She gasped a little. “That’s right, I meant to ask you. You’ve never told me about your mother, Tee.” She spoke before she could think, the words popping out of her mouth before she could think better of them. It was a bad habit, her lips often working faster than her mind. It wasn’t sensitive - no matter what had happened to her, no matter if it was recent or long ago, Theo hadn’t told her anything about his mother. There was a reason for that. Hermione had blurted out her curiosity, no thought for the sensitive nature of the situation.

Theo went rigid and Draco gently pushed Hermione off his lap so he could scoot closer. He pressed himself into Theo’s space, and Hermione felt cold and forgotten sitting outside of their bubble. A strong, steady hand cupped over Theo’s hand on the mattress, and Draco used his other hand to tilt Theo’s chin up and make eye contact, not unlike how he’d tilted Hermione’s chin moments ago. “We don’t have to talk about it,” Draco whispered.

Hermione suddenly wished she hadn’t said anything at all. She sat up and scooted closer as well, her hands inches from Theo’s body. She wanted to curl into him, to show him that she was there, she loved him, she wasn’t going to make him discuss something if he didn’t want to, but she didn’t know if she was allowed. Whatever had happened to Theo’s mother, Draco clearly knew what it was already. It wasn’t a secret between them, but if Theo wanted it to remain a secret between himself and Hermione, she wouldn’t begrudge him that.

After a moment, Theo captured Hermione’s hands in the one left free from Draco’s fingers and that was all the permission she needed. Hermione made a home for herself in Theo’s lap - her head was pillowed on one shoulder, her hands were pressed into his thigh. “We don’t have to talk about it,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Theo shook his head. “It’s fine. Just rather depressing for a date night.”

Hermione looked across Theo’s chest to Draco, but Draco only had eyes for Theo in that moment. She didn’t know what to do - change the subject? Or make certain that Theo knew she wanted to be with him through all the good and bad together?

“If it’s important to you,” she said quietly. “Then it should be discussed whenever and wherever you like. But if you don’t want to discuss it tonight, or ever, that’s fine, too. You don’t owe me your stories.”

Theo’s head turned just a bit, away from her, and Hermione’s heart broke. She wouldn’t be mad at him, and she wouldn’t ever blame him for seeking comfort in Draco instead of her, but her heart broke all the same. Just as she was about to change the subject, Theo spoke.

“My mother and father didn’t know each other. It was during the first war. Thoros, he’d been married for almost five years at that point, but his wife wasn’t able to have kids. It was a pretty big deal I guess. His parents were dead at that point, but Thoros was an only child. His wife was the last of her own line. If they didn’t have a child, there were going to be two Pureblood families ended, just- poof.” Theo blew out through his nose hard, a mockery of a laugh, and Hermione waited for the rest of the story silent. “My father was not a good man, Hermione. He hasn’t been a good man his entire life. He was following Voldemort as one of his Death Eaters during the first war. He had- has the Mark and everything. He was part of a raiding group. He went out to a Muggle village. They burned it to the ground, torturing the Muggles there. Some of them burned alive in their homes, others were caught as they tried to escape, and they were tortured before being killed for fun.

“My father found a girl. She wasn’t older than us probably, he always says she was young. School-aged, that’s what he called her. She was hiding in her root cellar, Thoros found her and saw an opportunity. I don’t know how he got her out of the village without the others finding out, but he did. She lived in the basement under the Estate for months, and Thoros’s wife stayed in their suite away from everyone else, and my father told the other Death Eaters his wife was finally pregnant. I know she tried to escape the Estate once with the girl, and once on her own. She tried to kill herself, too. But my father needed her magic for when I was born.”

Theo told the story with a sterile look on his face, devoid of emotion. He delivered the words flatly, like they weren’t the words of a horror story.

“My mother bled out on the stone floor of my basement, and my father’s wife died by her own hand not three days later. Thoros had an old ritual, with old magic, and he used it to cover up what they’d done. I have no idea what he did to me or to those women to make it so, but according to all magical understanding, I am the son of the Houses Nott and Benthiem, and supposedly, I am Pureblood. But in reality, I am the bastard son of a Muggle woman who was tortured by my father in the name of the Dark Lord.”

Theo ended his story with a breath, and there was silence in the Room of Requirement.

Hermione breathed out slowly. It was the kind of violence Lucius had told her about, the kind that had driven her to wiping her own parents’ memories. It was the kind of violence you read about in books, never seen first hand. Not by the likes of children at boarding school. It was unthinkable, unbelievable, and Hermione wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around Theo in some pale, anemic attempt to shield him from all the horror of the world. Perhaps this was why Lucius and Narcissa were so open to sharing their home with these teenagers, these children with nowhere else to go. It wouldn’t take away the pain, or the hurt, or the fear, but perhaps it would give them some kind of security. Narcissa couldn’t be Theo’s mother, but she could hold him as a boy. Lucius couldn’t replace Theo’s father, but he could guide him and care for him in the way a father should.

There was nothing Hermione could say though. Nothing to ease the pain of that story, of his existence. To know what your life cost others was a terrible burden, and Theo had never once shown Hermione how heavy it weighed on his shoulders. Hermione couldn’t say anything, but she could love him. She sat up, her head lifted from Theo’s shoulder, and she pushed his head into her shoulder instead. He needed it more.

He was silent and still, even as Hermione pushed him into her neck, tried to show him that she loved him, and then he shook. Great, heaving waves of sobs shook Theo’s whole body against hers, and Draco folded himself over them both, one hand on Hermione’s back, the other on Theo’s as he rested his head on top of Theo’s curls.

“I think he hates me,” Theo gasped between sobs, and Hermione’s heart broke at the sound. “I think he wanted a son so bad, he didn’t care who he had to destroy to get one, but he hates me for it. He hates I am a half-blood, and he hates I can’t be his second-coming. He hates me for looking like her, and I don’t even know her name.”

“Theo,” Draco said, his voice choked with emotion and pain.

“You know what he does to me,” Theo nearly yelled, his head spasming as he tried against both Hermione and Draco’s weight to sit up. They didn’t let him. “He tortures me, Drake! How can you do that to your son unless you hate him?”

Draco didn’t have an answer, and neither did Hermione. She could only think about what her funny, smart, excitable boyfriend had been through at the hands of a monster who called himself a father, and wonder how the hell Theo didn’t hate her for bringing the Dark Lord back into his life. How could Theo love her when she’d brought the man responsible for his pain back into his life? How could he engage in an agreement with her, love her, kiss her, look at her? How could Theo stomach her company when she’d driven the Dark Lord - the man responsible for his father’s cruelty and his mother’s death - into his home? And now, into Theo’s school. He was held on a leash, the pendant around his neck a collar. He served the man his father had served.

And it was Hermione’s fault.

She didn’t have the answers, and neither did Draco. They could only hold Theodore as he came apart in their arms.